Lylia (prime)/Brimstone and Ink
Brimstone and Ink
Originally posted on the official forums by UBERWENCH on 01/14/2020 at 05:43 AM CST.
Fred expected a quiet night. It was a Restday evening, and the neatly kept house at the end of Lyon Way had had few visitors to welcome that day. The most recent visit was from the mayor and her towering half-Elven companion, but that hardly counted as a visit. After all, the mayor's other office was in Brigatta. It was no surprise to see her or her young flaxen-haired friend Xanthium, although the younger woman rarely looked as serious as she had earlier.
He was daydreaming of Xanthium and her graceful walk, in fact, when the smell of burning brought him fully awake. Fire, always a danger to the sprawling house, brought instant alarm; the distinctive whiff of brimstone that accompanied balefire suggested the mayor's wrath, which was potentially worse. He was about to leave his post and investigate further when Lylia appeared at the door, green-black fire wreathing her hands. Her voice betrayed little emotion, but the viridian flames told a different story.
"Frederick. I shall be working late at Moot Hall, See to it that Xanthium is comfortable and has everything she needs. I left her rather abruptly after our discussion, I fear." Balefire snaked from her clenched fists to her forearms in a lurid green blaze. "Unconscionably rude of me, really." Although she faced him as she spoke, the Faendryl woman's unblinking eyes seemed focused on a point somewhere well behind Fred's head.
"Of course, madam. She's a member of the house too, and you know I -- "
"Thank you, Frederick. It is good to know I can always entrust tasks to you and know they will be carried out to the letter." Her lips skinned back from her teeth in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "To the letter," she repeated, "and speaking of letters, I have some I must write." Sulfurous smoke trailed after her, mingled with the sillage of her perfume, as she turned to walk toward Moot Hall.
The doorman didn't realize he was holding his breath until he released it in a rush once he heard the last echoes of her brisk steps fade in the muffling fog that had rolled in from Darkstone Bay.
Once in her office, Lylia paced across the tapestry rug in long strides, sending little puffs of fine dust from beneath it. She had let the last embers of her initial incandescent rage fall away from her during her walk to Moot Hall, and she was ready to consider the matter more coolly. She looked at the names on the pair of envelopes she'd addressed earlier, intending to fill them with less incendiary script. Thrassus. Nehor. She added a third envelope now, writing in a slanting copperplate hand: Socius.
Using the original letters as kindling for the stove that warmed her kettle, Lylia sat to pen new words as the old ones burned.
Thrassus --
You have no doubt heard of the insufferable pantomime comedy with the lilies and those who falsely bore them during an assault on two notable residents of Mist Harbor. Suspicion falls heavily upon the Faendryl, as always, and we are again in the tiresome position of disproving any ill intent despite the idiocy of these acts being manifestly visible. How fortunate that whomever is behind it all has acted clumsily, with no regard for the velvet glove and only the fist within. It is absurd that anyone would even attempt such a ruse, much less that anyone would assume any of us were a part of it.
How very un-Faendryl it all is. There is no power to be gained by it.
Find them, and we shall put an end to this charade.
After signing her name with a flourish, sanding the ink on the first page, and tapping it clean, she set the kettle on to boil. The water was fresh from a wave of an aquamarine wand as she no longer trusted the metallic tang of water from local wells; too close, she suspected, to the bloodied bay. Better to draw from the wand than the well. She smoothed her hand over another sheet of parchment.
Nehor --
Word has reached me of the terrible beating that befell Greth and Penre. As I know you abhor violence yourself, I feel certain you had nothing to do with this. Likewise, I assure you this was not my doing, nor that of my friends to whom I have entrusted the execution of my directives.
Shall I speak plainly? I do not much care for children and find them useless. Why would I wish to take more into my charge then, or that of my be-lilied associates? Our interests are not served in any way by interfering with the lives of orphans abroad when my own town, besieged by a blight, has many of its own. Orphans are a net export for the Landing, not an import, if I might make such a dark jest.
Are you certain that your "Flock" remains yours and has not been undermined as well? We should meet soon and discuss these matters over tea. I could invite guests who might shed more light too.
With the second letter signed and set aside, the most challenging one remained. Preparing her tea gave her time to think and calmed her with its familiar ritual; by the time she returned to her curule chair, she had an idea of what she wanted to say. The mayor idly ran her fingers over the ancient predator's skull on her desk, contemplating the nature of the thoughts the age-darkened bone once housed. The man she wrote to could also be predatory, vicious in his own way when roused, so she chose her words carefully.
Socius --
It grieves me to hear word of the abduction of the children Greth and Penre attempted to shelter from rough handling by the malefactors besetting the isle and its people. How much more it wounds me to learn that those responsible cloaked themselves in illusions and flowers, implicating me and mine in a repugnant act.
Let me be clear and to the point: I did not do this, nor did I have it ordered. It is beneath me. All of it, from the beatings to the taking of the children to their current circumstances. Those who did this must be brought to justice, however rough such justice may be.
My people are there to ensure peace in troubled times in exchange for a small share of the abundance of food your rich land has to offer. It is an equitable trade, but one that may not continue if disruptive elements cast doubt on our intentions, which I hasten to add align with your own in virtually every regard.
The island and all its inhabitants, from the Iyo to the town's citizenry to its visitors, must feel safe from the depredations of those who mean them harm. That, not turmoil, is my goal.
Despite having written for some time, she felt she hadn't quite gotten all the poison out. The embarrassment of having someone, anyone, mistake the fumbling operation to take the children for her doing still stung, and someone else would have to feel the lash to help ease it. After finishing her tea and fastidiously cleaning the cup, she walked alone through the fog to Aillidh Brae, the scent of brimstone still close about her.